Garage sales in the town where I grew up, and in the towns I spent the next 30 years or so of adult life, were almost non-existant: They were so rare that the sale hosts had to put a notice in the local newspaper or shopping guide to attract attention. Signs along the street pointing to a sale didn’t exist. I don’t recall going to a garage sale until I was maybe 30 years old.

How times have changed: Virtually every week for one or two mornings, Mrs Steve (Mrs. Jenny to most of you) and I drive around our town looking for garage sales, and we find them -- in abundance. Here in metro-Arizona they are everywhere at the end of each week. The signs litter most every corner on main roads. Sometimes we buy a little bit, sometimes we don’t. But we do spend hours every week looking through other people’s discards. I never thought in my wildest imagination of my future life, that I would be spending hours looking through junk.

I have hated garage sales for decades. I’ve never been comfortable pawing through used junk, with the owners eyeing your every move. I hate spending money on stuff I know will never be used or appreicated. I know that when Mrs. Steve finds “nicknacks”, more junk is going to be transferred from the current owner into our house that is already filled with “nicknacks”. I know that a lot of the stuff (some call them treasures) acquired through the weekly garage sales will be recycled in the twice-a-year sale Mrs. Steve, along with her mother, sisters, and daughters, hold at our house. She’s often, in advertantly, building inventory for the next sale or two. My whinning over the pending purchase of garage sale stuff never ceases, and rarely does it have any effect.

Now I must confess that my harsh views of garage sales may be a bit unfair, or maybe have just changed.

Recently Mrs. Steve has been focusing on certain types of furniture to which she applies her artistry, and produces really amazing new products. I’m impressed and proud of the work she does on those. We are builidng an inventory secured at garage sales, but now the inventory has changed, changed into many items that will be transformed over the coming year into very amazing works of art.

Well, ok, maybe garage sales might be interesting. Maybe I did make an offer on a sixty-year old Super-8 movie camera this morning, that I thought I could re-sell on E-Bay or maybe just hold as a collectable (Collectable?!, is that the same thing as junk?). Alright, I confess, at a minimum I come home with numerous paperback books every week, and the g-kids’ library of movies has grown fairly dramatically in the last year or so. I forgot to mention that my office chair, a sturdy leather affair claimed at a garage sale, is the only desk chair that I have had in 20 years that correctly supports my chronically aching back. Okeh, and I’ll confess, Mrs. Steve picked up some god-awful ugly ceramics a few weeks ago that she moved on the internet for a very impressive profit -- very impressive!

So maybe garage saling isn’t so bad, after all.

If your husband (most readers of Mrs. Steve’s blog are female) are like me, unsure of garage sales and maybe not really comfortable in digging into them, I’ve developed some guidelines and hints, that might make garage saling with you a bit more pleasant:

• Prepare to die. Our city has many artieral roads of six, eight or ten lanes. And invariably I hear, ‘Turn left right here, there’s a sign!” Of course we are in the far right lane when that instruction comes. Highly developed driving skills are a must, and keep safety in mind at all times. Check your side and rear mirrows often. When you are driving 25 mph in a 55 zone, looking for a garage sale, the insane drivers flying by you at the speed limit may not understand.

• Send your spouse into the sale first, while you keep the car running on the curb or in the middle of the street where you have stopped. If she see’s anything of interest, then you can join in.

• Take a large travel mug of coffee and the morning newspaper for the waiting time.

• Stay in your car unless you see tools, fishing gear, auto parts, sporting goods, or other “manly” goods, then you can jump out to view the sale, too.

• If the sale has a lot of clothes, see above about coffee and newspaper. If the sale has a lot of items but no tools, fishing gear or sporting goods, see the same item above and hold on to your wallet, that stop may take a while.

• Signage. Beware; many garage sale sponsors are clueless when they put out signs. I hate the ones who put sign at a major intersection, pointing across the intersection to the opposite side. Cross eight lanes of busy traffic to attend your crappy little sale, no thank you.

• Signage. Some will put a brown lettering on a brown cardboard box on the side the road. You don’t know if it is a sale sign until you have gone past it 20 or 50 yards. Others will put “sale” in pencil on a while sheet of paper, and tape it to a stop sign. Those can be confused with lost animal and other signage, or just blow off the pole in an hour or so. Those sales typically aren’t very good, anyway.

• Signage. Some inconsiderale boobs will not take their garage signs down at the sale, leaving you to scour their neighorhood for the non-existant sale in the following days.

• The best signs are floressence orange or green that you can see from several blocks away, and placed with some thought to the traffic flow.

• Beware of signs that lead you for miles. Those sales wil generate a lot of lookers, but typically don’t have much good junk to pursue.

• If you find yourself sucked into the garage sale, remember some of the rules from American Pickers: Offer 50% of the asking price, and if the seller says no (often they will say yes, sometimes they will hit you in the nose, sometime they will just walk insulted) then combine your wanted item with something else, and offer then a package price.

• Go early. Most sales in our area start at 7 a.m., sometimes 6 a.m. The best sales are usually on Thursday, followed by Friday. The left-overs are on Saturday. We usually hit the streets about 7, and are home by 8:30 or so, or end up at our favorite breakfast joint about then.

• Focus on middle income neighborhoods. Higher income areas typically don’t have sales, and if they do, they are over-priced. Lower income neighborhoods are filled with garage sale left-overs that they bought from you last year. Middle income neighborhoods are best, older neighborhoods can be gold mines. Avoid retirement areas, they have sold most of their goods before moving into the retirement communities. Here in Arizona and other “sun” states, avoid snow-bird neighborhoods, they don’t bring their “good” stuff with them for the winter.

There you have it, my “husband’s survivors guide to garage sales”. Good luck out there. Just remember, whatever your spouse buys, you can sell in your next garage sale.

(c) 2010 Stephen J. MatlockThis publication is the exclusive property of Stephen J. Matlock and is protectedunder the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws. The contents of this post/story may not be reproduced as a whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without consent of the author, Stephen J. Matlock. All rights reserved.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Welcome to week sixty-five of Saturday Centus. I read last weeks link in one sitting...they were enchanting and thought provoking and humorous and wonderful. If you haven't read them all, try to. Since they are so short, it is quite quick to read them all...and well worth your time...

Now,back to week sixty-five...

...seriously.

No words can convey the prompt to you...

...because...

...there are no words.

There is only a picture!

ha!

Tricked you! You thought I was going to tell you I wrote the prompt in invisible ink or something...like I would do something so evil...geez...

You can use a maximum of 100 words for your story this week...any style, any genre...

...based on this picture...

Please try to visit as many of the other links as possible. If you get a chance, perhaps you can visit the last five or so from last weeks challenge as well.

Please display link button or just a hyper-link back to Saturday Centus. Be careful to link your SC URL to the Linky and not just link to your main blog.

E-mail me directly with ???'s or ask your question in a comment and I will do my best to get back to you as soon as possible.

Friday, July 29, 2011

A year and a half ago, I wrote a post about our middle Grandlittle, Riley.

It was a really sweet post...

...but...

I was still surprised when some time after that, Patti at Raspberry Lane e-mailed me and told me she wanted to make a little angel for Riley.

Some time passed and Patti e-mailed me again asking about hair and eye color of all the Grandlittles, and a few days ago a box arrived.

In the box was a treasure for each girl. Made by hand and capturing the sweet innocence of childhood, Patti sent a garden angel for each of our granddaughters.

Mr. Jenny and I were in awe. What lovely craftsmenship. What a thoughtful and kind thing to do. Indeed, we felt like we had been blessed.

To thank Patti (heaven knows she wouldn't want me to sew her anything...ahem) I thought I'd do a little giveaway featuring her work.

Although there are no garden angels on her website at this time, I was charmed by these sweet little prim carrots.

The winner of this giveaway will receive three carrots ... (one for each of my own personal garden angels)...

I will draw the winner of the giveaway on Sunday evening, July 31.

You can get three chances to win:

1) Visit Patti's blog and tell her you saw her garden angels. Click here to visit her. Leave a comment on this post telling me you did.

2) Visit Patti's shop and tell me another item you think is sweet. She sells pre-made items as well as supplies. To visit, just click here. Leave a comment on this post telling me what it is.

3) Just tell me hi in a third comment here.

This contest is limited to US and Canada!

Thanks Patti! You are a gem! These little angels make me smile every morning! And see that sweet little bag on the right? It is my own personal "Relaxation corn sack"! You can freeze it or warm it and it soothes sore and tired muscles. I'm going to try it on my fingers...since I do tend to go on and on a little bit.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Welcome to round three of Alphabe-Thursday! Today we will be studying the outrageous letter:

Please link directly to your Alphabe-Thursday URL (if you don't know how to do this let me know!) and please continue to visit the five links before and after your link and leave a comment. Minimum of 10 links visited please. You can visit more if you like, of course.

I also want to let you know that each week I visit every blog. If it appears I haven't visited your blog by the following Wednesday afternoon, please let me know!

If you have any difficulties with your link, please make sure to include the number of the link when you e-mail me. It is really difficult for me to find you easily otherwise.

If you have any questions about Alphabe-Thursday or problems doing your link just post it in a comment or send me an e-mail. I'll do my best to help you as quickly as I can.

The McLinkey will be live from 1:00 pm MST time Wednesday afternoon in an effort to assist our lovely "friends across the pond" and continue through 10:00 am MST time Friday morning!

And remember.... link back to this post, you need to be registered as a follower of my blog, PG posts only, and you must visit at least 10 other posts...perhaps consider starting from the last posts and work backwards. The links will stay live after the final post deadline has passed so you can even wait and visit over the weekend or whenever you have more time.

It's wood floors are echoe-y and perfect for sliding. You can pretend you are ice skating...or zipping down a slip-n-slide.

It is wide enough for three little girls to run up and down, pulling Fisher Price Snoopy dogs and making enough irritatingly high-pitched barking noises to shake the foundation. It can be a highway...or a trail through the jungle.

It can become a wind tunnel and dry little bodies after baths when our Grandlittles run up and down from my bedroom to the kitchen.

AND...

It is a cure for shyness.

On Monday night we had company. The company had five children...all of whom were very shy.

Our Grandlittles...

Ummm... not so shy.

The youngest child, Joey, was pretty unsure what to make of three rowdy little girls running this way and that.

Our little Mo approached him and asked him to play.

He was silent.

She tipped her head and said, "Oh, I get it! You're shy!"

He was silent.

Then she said, "Do you want to run up and down the hallway with me?"

He looked down a the floor.

He looked down the hallway.

And then, he took off running.

Up and down.

Up and down.

All the little kids ran up and down.

And up and down.

It was loud.

It was echoe-y.

It was magical.

And it was the perfect cure for shyness.

The rest of the night continued with swimming and running and playing.

The magical hallway had done it's job...

Thank heavens I hid the Snoopy dogs before all the extra kids got there, though!

Those little fellas are mighty loud.

...

...

However...

If you come over to visit me and feel shy, I promise I'll let you pull a Snoopy dog in the magical hallway.

I hesitated. Sure this all sounded like it could work, but I was pretty tired out. And I really felt like I needed to plan this out a little more thoroughly, and…

“Pearl! Stop it! You can make excuses. You just have to do it. Don’t think so much about it. I’m not telling you to get a boob job or something…”

I spit the coffee I was just about to swallow out all over the table.

Boob job? I had to ask, “Millie, did you ummm…”

Millie easily deflected my question. “Boob job or not, now is the time, Pearl. Carpet diem!”

I started to say, “Millie, you mean carpe…not carpet diem,” but it was too late. Millie had rushed out the door.

Chuckling to myself, I turned to Jessie. Jessie didn’t look like she was finding any humor in the situation at all.

“Mom,” she said, “Do you think Millie might be right? Maybe we’ve both just been making excuses for our lives right now. I think I’m going to take Edgar and Princess for a walk. Do you have an extra leash?”

And now, Chapter 45 Continues.

So there I sat. Abandoned in my own kitchen. Jessie had taken both excited dogs for a walk. Who knows where Millie had disappeared to.

While I nibbled on the pecans I had scavenged off the top of the coffeecake, I thought about what Millie had said. Maybe she was right, but part of me felt pretty disloyal to my husband. The odd thing is, though, that the person I’d turned into after he died had never felt like me. Sure, I had my babbling, blundering, vague moments in the years of our marriage, but it wasn’t every waking moment of every blessed day. I don’t think so, anyway. And even though I’d never been a bra burning kind of woman, I hadn’t let my husband control every single aspect of my life. I don’t think I had, anyway. And my husband had never been one of those ‘cave men’ other women complained about. I don’t think he had been, anyway.

Honestly. I didn’t even know what I thought any more. Millie was right. It was time to just do something, anything to get out of this hell I’d been inhabiting for too long. It would be nice if someone would show me what the right ‘something’ was.

As I wondered who that ‘someone’ might be, Millie breezed back into the kitchen, arms laden with an overflowing laundry basket. In her absence, she’d repaired her mascara and reapplied her nuclear pink lipstick. She’d also taken a “Millie pill” because she was only in the door two seconds before she started, “Oh Pearl! I was just MORTIFIED when I saw myself in the mirror at home! I was so, so, so ashamed to see how horrible I looked. Even poor Myron looked surprised when I walked into the kitchen. So before I came back to help YOU, I had to take a moment to repair myself! And here I am! Voila! Now! Let’s get to work. Do you need to pee first?” She plunked the basket onto the kitchen table and looked at me impatiently.

Then Millie tapped me under my chin and said, “Close your mouth, Pearl! A fly is gonna get in there! If you don’t have to pee, let’s just get right to work!”

As she tapped her hands together in glee, I felt the first frisson of fear run down my spine.

Millie pushed me back into one of the kitchen chairs. She tipped her head to the right and then to the left. Then she made me stand up and move to another chair. “Better lighting here,” she said. “Better lighting for what?” I replied.

“Oh never you mind now. Just close your eyes and relax,” said Millie in a reassuring, peppy voice. I sensed resistance would be futile, so I just leaned back into the chair, closed my eyes, and sighed my consent.

Disregarding her instructions, I opened one eye at the sound of many objects being placed on the table. I tried hard to hide my reaction. “Pearl, Millie is trying to help,” I told myself. I think closing my eyes tightly again helped more than my inane little pep talk, though.

I felt Millie rubbing things onto my skin. I felt her wiping things off. I felt her doing something to my hair that involved funny scritch scratch noises and the aeresol ‘sssssssss’ sound and fragrance laden smell of two or three cans of hair spray. She tugged at the corners of my eyes. She told me to purse my lips for a kiss. She tapped her fingers on the bags under my eyes.

After some time went by, I heard Jessie come into the kitchen. The dogs lapped water…loudly. Jessie gave a short intake of breath, and then pulled out a chair.

Millie tapped and patted some more. She fiddled with my shirt color. She pulled here and there on my hair and muttered something about ‘roots big enough to hold up an oak tree’.

After a few more minutes, she told me to open my eyes. My kitchen table looked like a clearance sale at a make-up warehouse.

“Not quite done here, Pearl. But now I so, so, so need you to just keep your eyes open for me while I finish up.”

I tried to catch Jessie in my pheripheral vision, but it was impossible.

Millie poked around my eyes a little bit and it felt like she was writing on my eyelids in number two pencil. I saw the mascara wand approach each eye not once, not twice, but three times each.

“Now make sure when you put your mascara on, Pearl, that you do the top of the lashes, too. That’s really important when eyelashes are as pathetic…ummm… I mean…as thin and delicate as yours are.”

Millie stepped back and looked me over.

Her mouth opened into a perfect little “o”. Jessie slid her chair back and joined her. She looked really surprised, too.

“Now,” said Millie decisively, “You are going to stay right there and I am going up to your closet to get you something to change into. I don’t want you to see the ‘after’ wearing that horrible, tacky … ummm… I mean comfortably worn bathrobe. Promise me you’ll stay right in the chair until I get back.”

“Yes, of course, Millie, I promise.”

She squinted her eyes and looked at me carefully and then she held out her pink taloned little finger.

“You know what, Pearl? I just don’t believe you. I want you to pinkie swear with me that you’ll sit in that chair until I find something for you to change into.”

Pinkie swear? Did she think we were in first grade? Seriously.

My pinkie hooked into hers and I agreed. “Pinkie swear, Millie. But hurry up! I can’t wait to wash all this goop off my face.”

Jessie gave me the evil eye. Something she’d been doing quite a bit of all morning.

“Okay, okay. I’m just going to sit here until you find something for me to wear.”

Millie must have given Jessie some kind of signal, because she grabbed a chair and sat down to guard me.

“Jess? Do I look ridiculous?”

Jessie didn’t answer.

“Jessie? C’mon. Just tell me how bad it is?”

“Mom, just be patient. Trust me. You are going to be…ummm… surprised.”

I heard some distant slamming coming from upstairs. I think I heard a few swear words, but I couldn’t be certain.

After what felt like an eternity had passed, Millie clomped back down the stairs with an armload of clothes.

“Pearl, your clothes are pathetic. Absolutely totally so, so, so pathetic. I would just go home and get an outfit for you to wear but you are so much fatte…I mean…more voluptuous than I am.”

She held up a hot pink sweater that I hadn’t worn in forever. “How about this?”

“Well, it’s awfully bright Millie and I think it kind of shows off my muffin tops a little too much and…”

“Muffin tops? What do you mean muffin tops?” Millie demanded.

“You know…muffin tops? Ummm… well… ummm… that bulge that kind of gets pushed up when you put your pants on and…”

“Muffin tops? You mean fat, Pearl? Seriously, girl. I can’t fix everything about you in one day.” She tossed a black bra at me along with the sweater. “Put these on…and no, you can’t go into the bathroom. We’ll just turn around.”

“Millie, first of all, where did you find this black bra? I never wear this. It is totally uncomfortable and pushes my…ummm…chest so high up I think I’m going to get black eyes if I come down the stairs too fast.”

Pearl gave me an icy look. “Put. It. On. Put these control top black underwear on. Put on this sweater. Wiggle your muffin tops into these slacks.”

I hesitated.

“Now!” Millie barked.

Now I understood why Myron always walked around looking slightly shell-shocked. Millie was like a drill sergeant with PMS.

“Fine. You’ll see how ridiculous I look,” I gritted out. “I am going into the living room to change. There are no mirrors in there so I can’t peak. This is ridiculous. And after I change and you both laugh at me, I want you to leave. Both of you. I’ve had enough of this. Really. I wanted your help and all I get is ridicule.”

I grabbed the clothes and flounced into the other room.

Checking to ensure the curtains were completely drawn, I pulled on the underwear. I hated those underwear. They felt like I had wrapped saran wrap around my stomach. I pulled on the pants. They were way too tight. I struggled to pull up the zipper. I felt like a sausage. I wanted to cry. I finally got the zipper up but when I tried to fasten the button, it popped off and flew across the room like a hostile little projectile. The bra felt even more uncomfortable. There was so much wire in that instrument of torture I could have made a fence for Edgar. I tugged and prompted my breasts up so they were encased in the black lace. Seriously. My boobs had not been that high up on my chest cavity since I was 16 years old. Just as I was getting ready to put the hot pink sweater over my head, Millie ran into the room. “No, no, no! Let me help,” she cried, “You’ll mess up your hair!”

Before I could even be embarrassed, she had stretched the neckline on the sweater and inched it down over my hair and make-up.

She held each arm opening up like I was a small child, and I slid my arms through obediently.

After tugging at the hem of the sweater I looked up to see Millie’s face. She had an expression I could not identify. After a moments silence she bellowed, “Jessie, come see for yourself!”

(c) 2010 Jennifer R. MatlockThis publication is the exclusive property of Jennifer R. Matlock and is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws. The contents of this post/story may not be reproduced as a whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without consent of the author, Jennifer R. Matlock. All rights reserved.

School starts back on August 10 here. Something that always feels cruel. It is still wickedly hot and humid, but the school district hasn't felt it important to get my opinion on this practice...so school shopping begins the end of July.

This year our little Mo got to go first.

She has been worrying her little head over going to school. Mr. Jenny and I have been surprised because she's enjoyed preschool so much, but she seemed excited and happy to go shopping.

So I gathered up my coupons, the excited little girl, took a deep breath and headed to the store.

We always do school shoes first...

And each and every pair of Twinkle Toes must be tried on and debated over...

This one has a charm...

BUT...

...this one has pink sparkly laces.

Each and every pair must be laced up and tried out by jumping and running...

"Oh Grandma! See how fast I am in these Twinkle Toes? I need to jump and run in all of them!"

We must make several calls to Granpa to discuss the merits of each pair.

I know it's hard to believe but he can't advise whether charms OR sparkly laces are superior. He tells her she can't buy all of them, though...or he might have a heart attack!

She giggles over this.

"Grandpa is silly," she tells me.

Finally we return to the car with several pair of shoes.

I suggest we go home and swim. "We can finish later in the week," I say. It is hot and I am getting crabby.

"No, Grandma! We need to get EVERYTHING today!"

I take a deep breath and head to the clothing store.

Such delights!

She exclaims in wonder that tank tops come in pink, purple, yellow, blue AND orange!

She is astonished to find that there are shorts IN HER SIZE in all the colors she likes best.

She covers her mouth in astonishment that there dozens of dresses she likes...and, "LOOK GRANDMA! THESE ARE ALL SIZE 5!"

I explain to her that we will try things on and pick her favorites...BUT that we will not be buying all of these things.

She looks concerned and then giggles. "Will Grandpa have a heart attack?"

We head to a dressing room with three hooks. I tell her one hook is for "Yes", one hook is for "Maybe" and one hook is for "No". She takes off the dress she is wearing and hangs it on the "No" hook. "I don't think we need that hook, Grandma!"

But we do.

Because this shirt is itchy, and this dress is too tight, and these shorts squish her belly button in.

But when she likes something, she claps her hands together and twirls.

And twirls some more.

I am worried about all the twirling.

And the almost empty "No" hook.

When she has finally tried on everything and twirled to her hearts content, she points to the overflowing "Yes" hook and asks sweetly, "Can we call Grandpa and get all these clothes?"

"What do you think he will say, Miss MoMo?"

"I think he will say ...ummm...I don't think so."

"So what do you think we should do?"

She thinks.

"I know, Grandma! I'm going to pick the clothes that make me want to twirl the most! Is that good? Is that a good idea?"

"Yes, Mo. Let's pick those!"

We discuss what things can go together to make more outfits.

We retry a few things to see if they make her want to twirl!

After much deliberation, she carefully chooses a reasonable amount of clothes.

"Grandma, I'm hot!" she tells me after we check out, "Let's go home and swim!"

"Don't you want to get EVERYTHING?" I ask her.

She thinks for a brief moment and then tells me, "No, Grandma. I think we should stop. We don't want to give Grandpa a heart attack!"

And when we get home, we swim and then she gives her Grandpa and sisters a fashion show.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

These Sunday's segments are written by my husband, Mr. Jenny. Here's what he has to say about his posts:

I’ve been writing these weekly stories about life in Northern Idaho, as a youngster and as growing into a young man, primarily for our family. And I'm delighted to share them with you. Just between us, I’m anticipating being cranky when some whipper-snapper who may not even be born yet harasses me in 30 years or so with 'Grandpa, tell me about when you were a boy.' That will probably be after the mad cow disease has set in and erased whatever memory is left. So these are the not-so-dramatic adventures of a Baby Boomer in the 1950s, 60s and 70s.

ONE OF THOSE UNFORGETTABLE PEOPLE

Don Watkins had a mischievous twinkle in his 50-year old eye, he was a natural-born wise-guy who delighted in stirring up any pot -- and he was a guiding hand to hundreds of young journalists moving into their professions over the decades, including me.

Watson was of a slight build, short, thin, weathered, not much hair left on top, but always wore a grin with smile wrinkles pulling around the eyes. A cigarette invariably was in his hand, plus a cocktail after 6 most evenings. He was engaging, probing, perceptive and humorous,

He was a “political hack”, in that he gave media relations advice to the state’s politicians for decades, working their campaigns before settling back to the Idaho Board of Education where he worked in the non-campaign years as the public spokesman for that state government agency. He was also a weekend reporter and editor for the old United Press International (UPI).

He reached out to me in my junior year in college, a touch on my shoulder that changed my life.

I found myself that year as the chairman of a regional convention of college journalists. It was one of those jobs causally muttered, ‘yes, ok, I guess I’ll do it,’ that turned out to be over-whelming. It was one of those jobs that once accepted, you say to yourself, “I have no idea how to do this, I don’t know where to even start.”

This was the spring of 1970, the 1968 U.S. civil rights riots were still fresh, Vietnam protestst were still going very strong, and President Nixon would resign in a few years. There was a lot of interest in what the “baby boomers” were thinking and doing.

About 2,500 college students attended the three day convention that was mostly seminars and panel discussions, heavy interaction between the college writers and professional media representatives. What surprised me most was the feeding frenzy among national media types for an invitation to speak or participate in the convention: Newspaper reporters and publishers, national television reporters, magazine writers, a media flack from the White House, and others. We ended up with about 80 different professional journalists and other media types.

Watson called my college apartment one day, introduced himself as the head of public relations for the Idaho Board of Education, and asked for an invitation. And oh, he said, there are one or two others who would like to be invited too, which in the end, they were.

Watson’s influence was heavy on me over the next ten years, from having the State’s next governor hire me that year onto his campaign staff, to ghost writing editorial columns that drew an amazing amount of attention at my weekly newspaper, years later. I’ll get into a lot of that in future stories.

Like I said, Watson loved to stir up the pot, create a bit of controversy, and laugh at the results. He was very, very good at that.

At our little college convention, he did it again -- I don’t think he could help himself -- when he put this on the UPI newswire:

SUN VALLEY, ID (INS) A nationally known television newscaster last night claimed he was misquoted yesterday in a UPI dispatch which quoted him as saying he would go to jail if necessary to avoid revealing a confidential source.

NBC correspondent Tom Pettit charged the UPI had taken his words out of context. Pettit said what he really said was “I will go to jail if necessary to visit my confidential sources.”

However, UPI’s crack Sun Valley bureau chief, Don Watkins, veteran of an all night drinking bout Thursday, claimed he would stand by his earlier account. Watkins said, “I heard it with my own two ears from an anonymous source who claimed to have heard Pettit’s controversial remarks.”

Watkins immediately disclosed his own source as Sam Day, editor of the left-leaning Intermountain Observer, a Boise publication known to have anti-police tendencies. Day told INS he had not seen Watkins since around 3:30 a.m. Friday when a minor disturbance occurred in a hallway of the venerable Sun Valley Lodge, where the 1970 convention of the Rocky Mountain Press Assn. is taking place.

A spokesman for the convention disclaimed any knowledge of either Pettit or the disturbance involving Watkins, but claimed that the posh setting of the convention provided an ideal venue for the youthful college journalists to discuss America’s problems. The spokesman said: “These (expletive deleted) establishment ( expletive deleted ) come here from their (expletive deleted) establishment news agencies and try to tell us how to run our (expletive deleted) college newspapers. They need to go home, so we can do some good here.”

###

I was of course the spokesman he quoted. And there was a disturbance involving Watson and the Governor of Colorado who had the misfortune of having a room on that very noisy floor that evening.

Watkins died in the late 1970s, a result of one of the early open heart surgeries in that state, a loss that effected many, including me. Thirty years later, he is not forgotten.

(c) 2010 Stephen J. MatlockThis publication is the exclusive property of Stephen J. Matlock and is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws. The contents of this post/story may not be reproduced as a whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without consent of the author, Stephen J. Matlock. All rights reserved.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

...thinking about how to fill in my own little space on the wall from Saturday Centus was more difficult than I imagined it would be. I asked Mr. Jenny what he would write...sadly, his answer did not make the quest for my own any easier.

I thought long and hard about my beliefs and philosophies...the journeys I've been on and the ones I hope are still to come.

Afer much soul searching and deliberation, I finally decided on this:

Before I die I want to tell my Mom, "You were wrong. My eyes did NOT stay like that! So there!

To read other links to this Saturday Centus challenge, just click here.

Friday, July 22, 2011

And when I was on the cutting edge involuntarily my reaction was probably not too pretty.

I've been one of those 'blind without my glasses' kind of people for a long time now. I have learned NOT to get into the bathtub without putting some sort of vision improving apparatus on or in my eyeballs. Now I need to learn to not take a drink out of the water glass on my sink without doing the same thing.

ACCCCKKKK!!!

You guessed it.

The cold water went into my mouth...

AND IT WIGGLED!

And I screamed and dropped the glass and spit and spit and spit into the sink...

And grabbed my glasses...

And there was a bug!!!!

A big bug...

A wiggly bug...

Mr. Jenny came running in to assist me (brave man that he is!) and grabbed the wretched thing and threw it in the toilet.

ACCCKKKK!!!!

ACCCKKKKKKK!!!!!

I can't do it.

I just can't.

I can't be trendy and on the cutting edge of eco-friendly protein eating. I don't care that bugs are supposed to be the new chocolate. I DON'T CARE I DON'T CARE I DON'T CARE...BLEHHHH....BLECCCCHHHH...

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

And now, welcome to round three of Alphabe-Thursday! Today we will be studying the very nice letter:

Please link directly to your Alphabe-Thursday URL (if you don't know how to do this let me know!) and please continue to visit the five links before and after your link and leave a comment. Minimum of 10 links visited please. You can visit more if you like, of course.

I also want to let you know that each week I visit every blog. If it appears I haven't visited your blog by the following Wednesday afternoon, please let me know!

If you have any difficulties with your link, please make sure to include the number of the link when you e-mail me. It is really difficult for me to find you easily otherwise.

If you have any questions about Alphabe-Thursday or problems doing your link just post it in a comment or send me an e-mail. I'll do my best to help you as quickly as I can.

The McLinkey will be live from 1:00 pm MST time Wednesday afternoon in an effort to assist our lovely "friends across the pond" and continue through 10:00 am MST time Friday morning!

And remember.... link back to this post, you need to be registered as a follower of my blog, PG posts only, and you must visit at least 10 other posts...perhaps consider starting from the last posts and work backwards. The links will stay live after the final post deadline has passed so you can even wait and visit over the weekend or whenever you have more time.

“Now, what were we talking about?” Jessie said in a perky voice after she had thrown the soggy pile of napkins into the sink, “Oh, yes! We were talking about the weather. Right, Mom?”

I almost took the easy way out. I almost just said, “Why, yes, Jessie. Yes, we were talking about the weather.” Millie had quit crying while Jessie and I had cleaned up the coffee. When I glanced at her mascara smeared face, I almost remarked on the barometer but I couldn’t do it. I’d spent too much time ‘cupcaking’ out of my emotions for far too long. And I knew from past experience that seeing a teary face wouldn’t stop Millie from steamrolling over ME!

“No, Jessie. We weren’t talking about the weather. I was asking for Millie’s help.”

Millie leaned forward on her chair looking like she was planning to flee. Jessie leaned forward on her chair like she was ready to stuff a piece of coffee cake into my mouth to shut me up.

I leaned forward on my own chair and continued.

And now, Chapter 44 Continues.

“Millie? Jessie? I need your help.” I straightened my shoulders and took a deep breath. “Since my husband … ummm… passed away… No! Wait! I mean since my husband DIED, I’ve been lost. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat…okay, I can eat…I can’t eat HEALTHY stuff, I mean. Millie, I know you lost your first husband and now here you are with Myron and perfectly happy. Jessie, you just keep doing what you need to do despite … well, despite everything. I can’t seem to do that. I can’t seem to be happy or even know what it is I’m supposed to be doing. Millie, you get all dolled up every day and go to bridge and go shopping and do all kinds of fun things; and Jessie, you are just so strong…you just keep up with your life…no matter what. And I’m…I’m…well…I need help. Even getting out of bed in the morning is too much work. How do you do it? How do you manage everything perfectly?”

Millie looked at Jessie with wide eyes. Jessie looked at Millie with the same expression. They both started talking at the same time.

Jessie stopped talking and motioned for Millie to continue. That girl is all kinds of polite, you know?

“Pearl! Are you crazy?” were the first words out of Millie’s mouth. “I don’t have anything together. In fact, you make me feel rotten about myself because YOU’RE the one that has it all together. After Jimbo, my first husband died, I thought I’d died, too. I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t even leave my house. I just stayed inside and hid from the world. Or I tried to. But even when I was hiding and not answering the doorbell, not going out at all, it didn’t work because I couldn’t hide from me. I was so, so, so unhappy Pearl. I think I spent years dressing in a black bathrobe and not combing my hair.”

I was fascinated. This was certainly a side of Millie I couldn’t imagine.

“Then one day I looked in the mirror. Oh Pearl! It made me feel sick. I couldn’t even see the woman that I was when Jimbo and I had been married. I didn’t even know who I was. All of sudden, I couldn’t stand being who I’d become. Sure, I know you think I’ve always been this glamorous and fun…but if you’d have known me then, Pearl…oh, I’m tellin’ ya. I was really just a mess.” Pearl leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes before continuing, “So that very day, I made myself get dressed. Jimbo had never liked bright colors; he was a very conservative man. Don’t look so surprised, you two. It’s true. When I dug through my closet, all I found was black,navy blue and brown. And do you know what? I’d never, ever, ever liked those colors. If I brought home a bright pink sweater, Jimbo would roll his eyes…just a tiny bit. No, really. He was a good husband, you know? And I always figured that if my wearing hot pink made him uncomfortable, it wasn’t worth it. Pearl, should we check on the dogs? They’re mighty quiet. Princess is always so, so, so well behaved but I’m not sure…well…I just think we should check on the dogs.”

I figured I’d take a minute and put on some more coffee. I wanted to be sure Millie had enough caffeine to keep her going through her fascinating little story. Just as I put the pot on to brew, Jessie stuck her head in the kitchen doorway and motioned for me. She held her finger to her lips, warning me to be quiet and then showed me Princess and Edgar curled up together taking a nap on the couch.

When we returned to the kitchen, Millie was standing by the back door. “Pearl, Jessie…can you grab Princess for me? I really need to get home and I’m so, so, so certain you don’t want to listen to my little blast from the past…”

“Yes! Yes, we do!” Jessie and I chorused in perfect stereo harmony. “And besides,” I continued, “Let me show you what Princess is up to.” I led her into the living room.

“Oh Pearl. Look at them. All cuddled up together…you’re right…we’ll just chat some more while we let them take their little nap…besides, you just brewed up that new pot of coffee…”

I dumped out our cold coffee and refilled everyone’s mugs. Jessie cut a few more pieces of the coffee cake.

Millie looked down at the steam rising from her mug. “I don’t know, my story really isn’t all that interesting …and I just…well…I just don’t even remember where I was.”

“Hot pink sweater!” I said. “Jimbo was conservative!” Jessie said at the same time.

Millie reluctantly started her story again. I was surprised she was being so reserved. Normally you could not shut that woman up.

Jessie and I sat entranced for the next hour as Millie continued the story of how she had reinvented her life. That woman went from a wardrobe of brown and black to wearing all the colors she’d loved as a child, the brighter the better. She made herself try new things and meet new people. She told us that her goal every single day was to make herself do something different, even if it was just driving a different way to the grocery store.

“But how did you do it, Millie?” I asked.

“I just did it, Pearl. I knew if I didn’t, I’d spend the rest of my life wearing that ugly black bathrobe and feeling sorry for myself.”

“But how did you even start?” Jessie asked.

“I just did. Everything has to have a first day, you know? Everything.”

“Okay, but, Millie…” I interrupted her again, “How did you know what to do? Did you make a list? Did you read a book? How did you do this?”

“Pearl, you’re making too big of a deal about this. Just do something. Do something different that you didn’t do the day before. Anything. For instance…” she narrowed her eyes at me, “Try putting some make-up on…”

“Millie, my husband was not a big fan of make-up, I just never…” All of the sudden, a light bulb went off in my head. “You mean, just do things I might have wanted to do, and didn’t? Or do things I never got around to trying? Right?”

“Exactly! You’ve so, so, so got the idea, Pearl! And start today.”

I hesitated. Sure this all sounded like it could work, but I was pretty tired out. And I really felt like I needed to plan this out a little more thoroughly, and…

“Pearl! Stop it! You can make excuses. You just have to do it. Don’t think so much about it. I’m not telling you to get a boob job or something…”

I spit the coffee I was just about to swallow out all over the table.

Boob job? I had to ask, “Millie, did you ummm…”

Millie easily deflected my question. “Boob job or not, now is the time, Pearl. Carpet diem!”

I started to say, “Millie, you mean carpe…not carpet diem,” but it was too late. Millie had rushed out the door.

Chuckling to myself, I turned to Jessie. Jessie didn’t look like she was finding any humor in the situation at all.

“Mom,” she said, “Do you think Millie might be right? Maybe we’ve both just been making excuses for our lives right now. I think I’m going to take Edgar and Princess for a walk. Do you have an extra leash?”

To be continued on Tuesday, July 26.

(c) 2010 Jennifer R. MatlockThis publication is the exclusive property of Jennifer R. Matlock and is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws. The contents of this post/story may not be reproduced as a whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without consent of the author, Jennifer R. Matlock. All rights reserved.

These Sunday's segments are written by my husband, Mr. Jenny. Here's what he has to say about his posts:

I’ve been writing these weekly stories about life in Northern Idaho, as a youngster and as growing into a young man, primarily for our family. And I'm delighted to share them with you. Just between us, I’m anticipating being cranky when some whipper-snapper who may not even be born yet harasses me in 30 years or so with 'Grandpa, tell me about when you were a boy.' That will probably be after the mad cow disease has set in and erased whatever memory is left. So these are the not-so-dramatic adventures of a Baby Boomer in the 1950s, 60s and 70s.

AVOIDING THE FAMILY BUSINESS

“Do you want a finder’s fee? Or do you want a job?”

I thought my finder’s fee request was quite reasonable: I had anticipated an argument over the amount, but at the end of the day I expected to be pleased with the fee that would be paid. The thought of a job, instead of that fee, had never crossed my mind. The job that was offered was an even bigger surprise. I was shocked.

I had been determined not to join the family business for the last six years, determined to make my way in the world without my family’s influence. I knew the day would come when I would join the group, but I didn’t expect it to be that day.

My father’s face told me he was serious, and he expected the answer that I had been determined not to give. His normally relaxed and happy face -- wasn’t. He was determined. His high forehead showed -off a hairline that had receded decades before, leaving a widow’s peak of thin black hair combed back over his dark scalp, skin that become very deeply tanned each summer after days of lake fishing and his weekly afternoon golf game. In later years, a medical condition often made him a little drowsy in late afternoon, but not on this afternoon. His normal easy going demeanor was razor sharp, and he expected answers, the correct answers, and he expected them now.

It was summer, 1976; the U.S. bicentennial was underway, the Concord flew for the first time, gasoline cost $.49 a gallon, average income was $300 per week, Microsoft was founded the year before, and my father, the former U.S. Army Colonel, wasn’t about to take a ‘no’ for an answer from his middle son.

I had left my North Idaho home town the year before, moving to the state capital of Boise. Following college and a stint in the Army, I had spent a number of years with the wood products firm in Lewiston, writing and publishing its monthly employee newspaper. I drove through the region each month taking thousands of photos for the corporate archives, and writing endless news stories of logging and the processes of turning wood into lumber and paper products. I met thousands of people over the course of the years, and often dove into their lives with the stories I wrote and the photos I shot. It was a wonderful first job out of college, but I was bored. I saw no place for advancement. It was time to move on.

I joined a small Boise public relations firm, and moved south, determined to make my way in the world without joining the family business.

At the PR agency, I brought in the Big Sky Athletic Conference as my first client. I was the sports information director for the college athletic group, a terrific part-time assignment that the conference outsourced to the PR agency. I struggled to bring in other clients. While creative in the ways to generate publicity and media operations, I knew nothing of how to sell our services and secure new clients for the firm. I hated doing that: I was shy (I know, that is hard to believe 35 years later as I write this) and insecure in presenting the PR agency’s abilities and capabilities. I really hated it.

In those years, Boise was starting to grow. It was the largest metro area in the state with about 120,000 people, and it was growing with several new electronics manufacturers locating there. Today, by comparison, around 700,000 people inhabit that area, and it consistently shows up on national lists as a desirable place to live and work. Back then, it was trying to emerge from its image as the potato capital of the universe.

I hated working for the PR agency, although I did love doing the Big Sky Conference job. I spent a lot of time trying to develop new ideas, proposals and “out of the box” projects that would work for the agency, and work for me. One finally emerged.

I had gotten to know the Boise “press corps” fairly well in 1968 when I took a part of a year out of college to work on the media staff of Cecil Andrus, who ran successfully for governor that year. When I moved to Boise, I resumed the friendships with the news crowd in the town, including several who had become long-time mentors of mine, and would influence me greatly in the future.

It was through those relationships that I had heard of a suburban newspaper that might be for sale. I called the owner and arranged a meeting at his office, some 10-miles out of downtown. What I found was a small town weekly newspaper that, like the town it was in, was starting to be overwhelmed by the growth coming its way from neighboring Boise. The owner, who had operated the business for 40 years or so, was anxious to pass the reins to a new group who could cope with the coming population and business growth.

The family business that I so studiously avoided was operating two daily newspapers and several commercial printing plants in North Idaho. My maternal grandfather and several great-uncles started the first newspaper in the 1880s, and the third generation of the family was now managing the business. My father had joined the newspapers about eight years before, after he sold his radio station business and retired.

Retirement for Dad lasted two, maybe three weeks. He was bored silly. He played golf every day for a week, and despaired that he would do that for the rest of his life. I learned later that my grandmother, my father’s mother-in-law with whom he had a very close relationship, had strong-armed Dad to give up his foolishness of retirement at the ripe old age of 52. She pushed him to join the family newspaper, to bring some “grey hair” to the management of the business that was being run by two much younger family members. He jumped at the opportunity, then settled into a role as the number two in the business for the next 15 years before he retired a second time.

Eight years later, it was my bright idea that the North Idaho newspaper group should jump at the chance to get into the fast growing Boise market, to broaden its business base outside of the stagnate agricultural based economy. I pitched the idea to a meeting of my Cousin Butch, Dad, Mom, the company finance manager, and several others. I had lunch with my grandmother, and explained the ideas and opportunities to her, then still very intelligent at 88 years old. All were non-committal.

But Dad and Cousin Butch then spent several months negotiating the purchase of the weekly newspaper. They built a business plan, arranged financing, and prepared to jump into a new market by converting an old established, but sleepy, product into something new and dynamic, to reflect the growing economics of that region.

I attended the closing of the purchase that day, when my father and cousin signed the purchase agreement and cut a check to the outgoing newspaper owner. There were congratulations all around. Later at lunch, I asked the question I was dying to know: About my finder’s fee.....

“Do you want a finder’s fee, or do you want a job?” My Father wasn’t kidding when he asked that question. What? What did you say? “Do you want a small wad of money that you will go through very quickly, or do you want a job,” he asked again.

“What job? “ I just made a mistake, asking the first question that could lead down a path that I really didn’t want to travel.

“Look,” he said, “You brought this opportunity to the business, now it is your job to make it happen. Your cousins agree, so does your mother, your grandmother, and so do I. We want you to run and develop this business.“

I’m 26 years old. I can’t balance a check book. I’ve been told that I am bright, creative, and driven. But what do I know about running a business, any business? Nothing, not one thing. With a small corporate staff and some resources to help me, all located 350miles away in the north of the state, it felt a bit overwhelming.

But the time had come. I knew it and they knew it. It was time to join the family business. So I did. For the next eight years.

A month later I met my parents at cocktail party over-looking a gorgeous mountain lake at McCall, Idaho. After consuming several cocktails, my mother passed along a bit stellar advice that I still take to heart, and that I share with my business friends, and with our family: “Don’t screw it up.”

In the years ahead I tried my very best to follow her instructions.

(c) 2010 Stephen J. MatlockThis publication is the exclusive property of Stephen J. Matlock and is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws. The contents of this post/story may not be reproduced as a whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without consent of the author, Stephen J. Matlock. All rights reserved.

Holy Criminy. This was hard! 25 words is not very darned many to write a little story with. But here's my attempt. The prompt is used three times and bolded (so I only counted it as five words...I don't think that's cheating and I'm comfortable with the fact that the story was told in exactly 25 additional words!)

To read other Saturday Centus offerings, just click here.

Ahem...

She yelled, “I’m not getting any younger” even though I hurried.

Then she screamed, “I’m not getting any younger”, when her coffee wasn’t hot enough.

I thought, “I’m not getting any younger”, as I ignored her buzzer and call light.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Jump up and down when after their 3rd visit they say, "Look, we'll just come on Friday morning and take all the old connections and wires out and re-install everything."

Whine, when you realize that you will be without internet AGAIN for much of Friday.

AND...

Paint like a fiend.

Here's three projects I just painted...I love them all...but maybe the tattoo bird end table is my favorite.

This is the cutest little kid's rocking chair. It was just faded ugly brown paint when I bought it. You can't tell but the the blue paint is a metallic. It looks really neat against the dark purple.

This was just a beat up beer crate. On both sides is written "He loves me...He loves me not..." The inside is metallic gold and the flower design is also on the back.

This was an old brown retro looking end table. I've never painted birds before so I was a bit hesitant but I like how funky the whole thing turned out in the end. The pink drawer makes me laugh.

We have two Cox crews coming at 8 this morning so the internet will be going down again. I just want to remind you that I will be by to visit your Alphabe-Thursday links (both the rest of L and M) and your Saturday Centus links! I haven't forgotten you! I promise!